


I Must Go On

by themarchgirl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Letters, Lost Queen stumbles across ancient elven stuff and actually asks an elf, Romance, it's another Reunion Fic, maybe I'll try some smut later WHO KNOWS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarchgirl/pseuds/themarchgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elissa Cousland searches desperately for the cure for the Calling, refusing help from her husband, her friends and the resourceful Inquisition. But as the Calling creeps up on her, she finds herself needing more assistance than she anticipated. Alistair/Cousland, set post-Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Welcome to my very first Dragon Age fic. I'm new to the fandom and also a bit rusty after a very long writing break, but I'm hoping to turn the cogs and practise a little with this fic. I can't promise regular updates but I am home for the summer and currently without a computer to waste the hours away actually playing DA, so you may see a lot of me. 
> 
> I'm also exploring and discussing a lot of lore here. These are my own ideas and should not in any way be taken as canonical! But do please let me know if there's a serious error anywhere which would throw off the whole plot. Because that would suck. Enjoy!

The mountains are quiet tonight, a stillness settling over the rocky peaks like a heavy blanket. Elissa’s cave of choice is nestled between two slopes, with a treacherous path leading to it across slabs and crooks that she’s surprised to have been able to traverse. Even with such an isolated and protected spot, the silence is unsettling. The usual high-pitched whistle of the northern wind does not shoot past her ears, rustle through her clothes like it should.

No sleep tonight.

Even with the comfort of an indifferent landscape continuing on around her, the song is… too loud. Leliana’s letter and her scouts had confirmed her suspicion that the sudden, all-eclipsing crescendo she and her colleagues buckled under two years ago was unusual, as well as its timely pause as the news of Corypheus’ defeat reached her. But it has been nearly fifteen years since her lips touched the Joining chalice and the Blight began its wicked residence in her blood. It is still only murmurs in her ears. It is sufficiently loud to cause her desperate search for a way out.

She wishes – she wishes she had known. When Duncan hurried her away from burning Highever the Wardens were the only destination she knew. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. No other choice.

But now, with scars on her face and grey in her hair before her thirty-fifth summer, she begins to regret. She has done so much. She has led legions of Wardens into the Deep Roads and back out, thaigs reclaimed. She has cut down two hundred hurlock alphas twice her size. She has captured three talking darkspawn, coaxed information from their trembling, rotting lips and then slit their throats. Fifty slobbering ogres. It has always been satisfying. Each time her weapon pulls life from the growling, clambering filth that are darkspawn, it is easier. She still remembers the rush, the roar, the energy battering its way through her as she slammed her sword into the Archdemon’s heart. She had been sure she was dying. And yet. A magic, a witch she does not understand, but (still) trusts entirely, kept her on the living Earth.

Is it selfish? To live? To _want_ to live?

Her husband waits for her on his lonely throne. Their correspondence is regrettably sparse, mostly assurances of their health. When she finds something in her research she scribbles it in a worn journal, for him to read when she returns. An elaborate chain of scouts and merchants currently connect the King and Queen of Ferelden. There is too much room for curiosity; their letters do not breathe a word of location, nor her work. For her to have come so far and to be slaughtered in an Anderfels cave by greedy bandits – no. She must preserve herself, or her progress and isolation mean nothing.

She’s close. She can feel it.

Grand Enchanter Fiona no longer has the Blight. Avernus is unnaturally old, even for a normal human man. Her first stop after leaving Denerim was his study in Vigil’s Keep, sat at his desk and whispering over his notes. He himself was unsure – his blood magic abilities were certainly involved but he knew not how. Every time he commandeered the power of his blood and his magic he felt his life extend.

She wished, for the first time in her life, to be a mage.

She knew the ways that the Fade corrupted those whose physical bodies entered and left it so many centuries ago – everyone did. But there were only stories. And Corypheus, the only known Blighted magister, was rightfully destroyed. If only she could understand how the Blight began, how the corruption worked itself into mortal bodies and poisoned, slowly. How it could be undone.

In her cave she has nothing more than a fraying blanket, bedroll, waterskin and cup, as well as her papers and sword. Her health potions have run out; luckily the last one took care of a nasty fracture in her finger as well as stomach pains from her attempt to consume deepstalker meat. She is healthy. But another violent encounter – with darkspawn or something else – would be best avoided.

Weisshaupt is near. This she knows. But the Wardens there are unnervingly unemotional, blindly following invisible orders that never seem to lead to anything. She has stayed at Weisshaupt twice, called for ‘Warden meetings’ that never occur. Every time she left wary and bemused. Her Wardens feel like an order of their own, and she is thankful. The warriors, rogues and mages that she trained herself are her family. They deserve to do good work and see its results. She never hesitates to remind them of the importance of their work.

The Anderfels are overrun with darkspawn; the first of the Deep Roads to fall to the agents of the Blight. Every cave that is not a mere crevice in the face of a mountain must be ignored, in case darkspawn begin to pour out behind your bedroll while you sleep. This has happened once; she sustained a broken arm and a worrying spine injury that left her bedridden for weeks. Her work progressed markedly during this period, aided by her delirious note-taking and re-reading.

She calls her current project a ‘journey’, despite there being no physical destination. She moves every three days, destroying all evidence of her stay and travelling only at night. She has resided in this cave one night. It is ten feet deep and twelve feet wide. She aches from sleeping curled up against the wall, one hand clasped around the hilt of her sword and the other clutching a dagger under her bedroll. Sleeping lightly for months is taking its toll, making her easily frustrated. She fights better, but she wishes it were not so.

There is still no wind, no air movement outside of her cave. It is strange. The whole world seems on the precipice of a great leap, or a great fall. Wryly, she thinks to herself that if she sat up too fast in the morning she might fall out of her cave. One arm is clasped to her chest, her fingers picking at a scab on her shoulder. Her hair, burned red in the Orlesian sun as she travelled towards the mountains three months ago is knotted tightly around her head, mussed by the repeated shoving on and pulling off of her hood. Her skin peeled when she first arrived in the mountains, leaving her skin browner. The sun never shone brightly enough over the muddy plains of Ferelden for her to experience such a thing before. She likes it; it reminds her of the dark, glowing skin of that beautiful Isabela who cheated at cards at The Pearl, of Duncan’s kind, worn face. Her tanned skin is a mere imitation of them, but it allows her to revel in memories of being around others, of having guidance. Her skin is paling now; her time spent mostly in the dark with dim candlelight does little to sustain the colour. Her eyes travel now over her wrinkled hands, her bitten nails.

A noble-born Queen, ageing quickly in the dark of an Anderfels cave. It seems almost romantic.

Her notes are crumpled from her constant touching, fingering, worrying. There are some blood stains, places where her desperate tears have blurred her scrawled words. She looks at them now, re-reading. _Fade. Blight is corrupted magic from the Fade? Magisters brought something out of the Fade? What did they do in the Fade?_

The Inquisitor had penned another letter to her about a month after she slew Corypheus, thanking her for the belt and her initial reply. Although Elissa had been honest about her lack of expertise on Warden lore, the Inquisitor sent her a long report about the darkspawn magister, including some of his malevolent vows made during conflicts with the Inquisition.

_For I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty._

Biting her lip, Elissa flicks through the makeshift pile in her hands until she finds the loopy script of the Inquisitor. The letter had arrived outside of her usual channels, the scout who she met nervously informing her that he wasn’t sure who had sent it.

The claw marks that had made folds in the envelope made her smile.

‘Do not worry. I believe Nightingale’s crows delivered this one.’ She had squeezed the scout’s shoulder. ‘Your wariness is welcoming. I thank you.’

He had bowed hurriedly, handing over the rest of her letters from under his cloak and walking away.

By her usual channels this report would have been an extremely reckless endeavour by the most powerful woman in Ferelden and Orlais. But Leliana’s connections were entirely secure – Elissa greedily devoured the Inquisitor’s report. _He was gigantic, your Grace, twice my height. I could not describe his appearance any other way than Blighted. His body seemed to be made up of red lyrium and his skeleton. He seemed intent on frightening, and I would be foolish to say it did not work._

Inquisitor Lavellan described the darkspawn’s reliance on demons and blood magic – _his tendrils of power took hold through sacrifical rituals and brainwashing. It reeked of Tevinter._ That had made Elissa smile sadly. Wariness of the magisterium was universal across Thedas, but only the elves knew the full extent of Tevinter injustice. _There was an incident with time magic – I was briefly transported one year into the future with one of my companions. Red lyrium grew out of every possible orifice. It grew within and from people. A contact of my inner circle believes that red lyrium is blighted lyrium. Perhaps we faced a constructed Blight – he appeared to be accompanied by an Archdemon but turned out as nothing more than a corrupted dragon. The little we know about the Blight itself concerns me, your Grace. Warden Stroud, who we sadly lost at the skirmish at Adamant, implied to me that the Warden order is particularly secretive. But surely, it has been long enough, the Blights have caused enough death, that we should expand the study out of Weisshaupt?_

Elissa heartily agreed. But she did not know how much weight she truly pulled in the Warden fortress. She had hastily replied.

_Truly, my lady Inquisitor, I wish I could storm into Weisshaupt and demand that the First Warden and his compatriots hand over everything we know. But it is as secretive as you say. I am afraid I would rather not share what (little) I know unless we were in the same room. And I am too close to the goal that I described to you to turn back now._

_I will say that my research has led me to consider the involvement of the Fade itself. I hear that you are a mage and your expertise would be valuable. The stories say that you yourself went into the Fade – physically! I am considering that something came out of the Fade with the Tevinter magisters that should have remained there, but perhaps merely entering and exiting the Fade whilst conscious is a corrupting act. Do you feel different? Changed?_

_As always, I thank you for your protection of Ferelden and its King. I would return to him as soon as I can._

She’d handed the letter to the scout three months ago. Nothing has arrived in response. She occasionally considers the benefits of a reply, but it is not surprising. She recalls the letters she would spend hours writing to Teryns and Banns as part of her queenly duties. Alistair had twice as many. Royal life often seemed to involve endless letter-writing. Looking at her sparse belongings and parchments, she finds herself missing it.

Sighing, Elissa sets down her papers next to her bedroll and rests her chin on her knees. It is still too quiet. She dislikes it immensely. The sound of constant movement outside is far more comforting than the deafening silence surrounding her now. She feels the urge to stretch her legs but is reminded of the twenty-foot drop to the somewhat flat terrain of the mountain ‘path’ below her cave. She could brave the uneven surface of the mountain face that propelled her upwards. The idea of crouching in this tiny hole for another night is unwelcome. But something feels very wrong. A shuffling near the entrance of her cave sends a thrill of fear racing through her. Her sword is too big to brandish in this space but a movement to grasp her dagger would cause her to make noise of her own. Elissa bites her lip, hard, and breathes through her nose. She will not die now. The choke point of the entrance to the cave is extremely advantageous – a mere shove to the intruder would send them, and anyone behind them, flying backwards to sure injury. She anticipates another shuffling sound correctly and her hand finds the hilt of her dagger. Even the most gifted assassin cannot be silent whilst scaling a steep rocky face.

Her sitting position allows her to lean her weight forwards onto her feet. She is ready to leap. Sure enough, a shadow falls over the entrance, blocking the dim moonlight. Elissa licks her lips. _Come on, then. Don’t keep me waiting_ , she thinks to herself.

A long-fingered hand curls around the side of the hole. _Not yet._ Something pointy moves into the open space. _One more inch…_

A head. She lunges.

And is thrown backwards. The intruder was expecting her. A male, slender and quick, has her shoved against the floor of her cave, hand over her mouth as she struggles. She’s a warrior; shoving against enemies, shoving into enemies is what she knows, what she does. And yet someone unwelcome pressed so close to her now ignites true panic. _No. No. Not now. A blade to my heart. My throat. Quick, silent. Not the way I wanted…_

‘My Queen, you must be still.’ The rich Antivan accent indeed stills her. Velvet tones and faint cologne are a second clue. Her eyes, which were wide with fear before, narrow.

She can hear the intruder’s smirk. ‘Better. If I let you up you must promise not to kill me.’

She lets go of her dagger. His hand loosens over her mouth and he lets his weight fall back onto his knees. Slightly.

‘Promise?’ His eyes are glinting. She rolls hers and nods. ‘Excellent. I would remove myself from you, my dear, but you’ve found yourself quite the little hovel. I can’t quite move. Is this how Alistair feels?’

She nips at his fingers until they glide away from her lips. ‘It’s not that small. And, no, because Alistair doesn’t sneak up on me in my very secure hideaway and scare me half to death, Zevran.’

Her old friend grins broadly and smoothly lifts himself away to lean against the wall of the cave. ‘Ah, you’ve missed me.’

‘Maybe.’ But his face is such a welcome sight that she cannot help the smile that spreads across her face. ‘I don’t want to know how you found me. Actually, I do, because that means there are more people than I would like who know where I am.’

Zevran’s demeanour instantly moves from his normal flirtatious to his more exclusive friendly and warm. ‘Do not worry. I have been keeping correspondence with our dear Leliana.’ Now sheepish. ‘And following you.’

‘Of course you have,’ Elissa sighs. ‘Well, it must have been terribly boring, which means you need me for something important. What is it?’

He looks away, to out of the cave. His silence, like the landscape’s which preceded his arrival, makes her nervous. ‘Zevran?’ She asks quietly, her fingers worrying the fraying hem of her bedroll. ‘Please, my friend. Tell me.’

His responding smile is more of a grimace. ‘You will not like this.’

‘Oh.’

‘It is... nobody is in danger. But it is potentially urgent,’ he says. He is clearly uncomfortable.

‘Zev, if you don’t spit it out immediately I’ll take back my promise not to kill you.’

He laughs, lines around his eyes crinkling. ‘There she is. Commander of the Grey. Queen of Ferelden. Impatient as ever.’

‘Zevran.’ She takes his arm. Digs her fingers in.

‘It is… in regards to your husband.’

‘What?’ Both her hands grip his arm now. ‘Is he well? Tell me he is well.’

Her mind works instantly, cogs turning to construct an image of her Alistair clutching his hands to his ears, the song too loud, can only mean one thing –

‘No, no, he is well!’ Zevran gently pries her hands from his arm and takes them in his own. She relaxes slightly, still regarding him warily. ‘But it is he who sent me.’

She frowns. ‘Explain.’

‘He is…’ Zevran hums over his next words. ‘Alistair is preoccupied.’

Elissa tilts her head. ‘You said he was well.’

‘Oh, he is! He is still our young King, training well, hating court.’ Zevran waves his hand. ‘But he has become extremely concerned, of late. He is anxious, more so than even a King should be.’

Elissa breathes out heavily. ‘He wants me to come home.’

Zevran nods. She runs her hands through her hair and presses them against her neck. ‘Zev – I’m so close. Just a few more months – ‘

‘You’ve been gone three years, my dear,’ Zevran says kindly. ‘What are you accomplishing out in Maker knows where that you cannot do in Ferelden?’

‘Everything!’ she cries. ‘I cannot be Queen, command the Wardens and do this! It requires all of my focus, my research. You do not – you do not understand, I must remain until my work is complete! If I go back – ‘

She breaks off abruptly. She had, of course, in her darkest and loneliest nights, considered giving up and going home. The loss of Alistair’s constant presence is becoming more and more of a handicap as the years without him passed. Just to see his face, to feel his strong arms surrounding her, his mouth on hers…

‘If you go back?’ Zevran prompts. Her head drops into her palms. ‘If I go back,’ she whispers. ‘I will never leave.’

He stares at her for several moments, before nodding to himself. ‘Yes, I understand.’ 

'A Queen cannot secretly search for a cure for the Calling,’ she continues quietly. ‘A Queen… I will have my duties, state visits. It is too much. And a Commander of the Grey – it would be easier, perhaps. But I am a proactive Commander. I have never led less than ten skirmishes a year. That takes planning and – and _time_ , Zevran!’

He says nothing, waiting patiently for her true point to make itself known.

‘I am running out of time, Zev,’ she murmurs, leaning her head back against the wall of the cave. ‘And if I am running out of time, then so is Alistair.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Sorry it's been a while, I've been battling with getting my old laptop repaired and insurance companies SUCK which means I'm calling them all the time. I also had to restart this chapter because the first version just felt weak when I was writing it. Hopefully this is better! 
> 
> As always, this fic is more of an exploration of my warden's character than a Precise and Exact discussion of lore, so apologies if something doesn't sit right with your own headcanons. But please feel free to point out glaring errors!

She is running down a long corridor, her skirts hiked up in her hands. She is laughing; the man chasing her will not hurt her. She feels his fingers tickle her waist and shrieks, trying to turn back on herself and colliding with him. He catches her torso in his arms and lifts, spins her. Clinging to his broad shoulders, her laughter fades into heavy breathing and his favourite smile.

‘And where is my love running off to this morning?’ Alistair inquires, gently setting her feet back on the floor and resting his hands on her hips.

‘Training,’ Elissa replies, digging her fingertips into the soft hair at the back of his head. ‘I’ve been writing letters all bloody week and I need to stab something. Am I allowed, your Grace?’

He snorts and squeezes her. ‘That’s why our training dummies look more intact than usual, then. I’ll see you at chapel, won’t I?’

She nods and takes his face in her hands so she can kiss him goodbye. He lingers there for a few seconds, arm tightening around her waist momentarily.

It begins to hurt.

‘Alistair,’ she mutters, pulling away from his mouth. ‘Let go.’

She looks up at his eyes and her breath stops in her chest. His face is rotting, veins standing out sharp on his skin. He breathes raggedly, a snarl building in his chest.

‘Alistair -!’ Elissa fights against him. ‘No – no, not yet! We have more time than this!’ 

'The song,’ he rasps. ‘Can’t you hear it? Isn’t it beautiful?’

‘No!’ she is screaming, struggling. His body is a vice around hers and yet seems to be crumbling to ash. ‘Alistair!’

She awakens violently in her cave, Zevran’s hand tight on her shoulder and shaking her. Or maybe that’s just her. 

'Elissa, Elissa,’ he hisses, clamping his free palm over her mouth once she appears to be awake. ‘Hush, my queen.’

The security of her awakened state calms her cries. Her face is wet – she hadn’t realised she was weeping. She shifts away, scrubbing at her cheeks roughly.

She has cried in front of Zevran before; whilst they were travelling all those years ago the loss of her family had led to many evenings where the others had witnessed her tears. But where before she craved the comfort of a willing shoulder, now she burrows her face back into her pillow.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbles eventually. ‘Nightmare.’

‘I gathered,’ he murmurs, squeezing her shoulder briefly. She hears him sitting up behind her and shuffling towards the entrance of the cave. ‘It’s nearly dawn. Let’s pack up.’

She hums in affirmation, stretching her legs until her head rings and she’s yawning. Zevran passes her the waterskin and she takes it grudgingly, wary of the partnership that seems to be forming inside her cave. But last night they decided to sneak into Weisshaupt. And he’s her first choice for this sort of adventure.

‘Sneaking’ may not be the best word for what they’re going to attempt. There is no entrance other than the front gates – back doors leading into caves would be a horrendous design flaw for a fortress nestled in between the peaks of the darkspawn-infested Anderfels. As the only candle flickered out, Zevran explained the ways of disguise and stealth that he knew like breathing.

Now, lovingly fingering the ends of her long brown hair, Elissa sighs and reaches for her dagger. A hand stops her – Zevran inclines his head to indicate his desire to cut it for her.

She rolls her eyes but gives it to him. Elissa has only been to Weisshaupt twice but she is certain she would be recognised if her appearance was the same. It was difficult to hide there anyway, but her rank and achievements meant she was under constant scrutiny by her fellow Commanders. Even now the memories of invisible stares and the intimidating age of the Warden fortress make her shudder.

Zevran carefully runs her blade through her hair, smoothly shearing it into a short bob cut and leaving the front long. Then he takes the long parts into his hands and carefully combs them in front of her face. Measuring two inches down, he takes up her dagger again and cuts across. He has made her a fringe.

Elissa stares at the brown locks of hair that now litter her lap. One of Alistair’s favourite things to do is to play with her hair. He likes to braid it, twisting it around his fingers before they go to bed so the strands won’t stick to her neck in the night like she hates. She remembers Fergus ruffling her hair after afternoons spent teaching her the sword. She remembers her mother gently smoothing it out of her face as their castle burned around them and her father lay dying on the floor.

She lets some more tears fall. If Zevran notices he says nothing.

After a few minutes he tips her chin up and studies her for a moment before grinning. ‘This may be my best work. I wish I had a mirror.’

‘You haven’t made me look so terrible I’ll stand out, have you?’ She groans, feeling the shorter ends of her hair gingerly.

‘You underestimate me, my dear.’ He wags a finger at her. ‘I added the fringe over your forehead so that the shape of your face might look a little different. You look ten years younger.’

She huffs a laugh. ‘Are you sure you’re not a mage, Zev?’

‘Would you believe that’s not the first time someone has asked me that?’

‘Oh, shut up.’

They add Elissa’s lost hair to their singular candle as they pack up her belongings and notes. It fizzles away, becoming ash on the cave floor. Elissa finds herself watching it burn, wondering if she’s about to lose a lot more than her hair.

Finally they are ready to leave. Elissa needs to meet her scout to pick up any letters but luckily it will be en route to the castle. They approach the entrance to the cave, both sitting with their legs hanging over the rock face below. Zevran goes first, lithe feet finding the perfect crags to step onto and gloved fingers grasping expertly at slots in the rock. He’s down in half a minute, carefully peering around before signalling for her to throw down her belongings. She tucks her notes into her breast band and drops her pack down, wincing at the slight clanking of her mug when he catches it. She fixes her daggers in her boot and on her belt, and fits her sword over her back.

She checks the cave behind her one last time for any remaining signs of their residence, before turning around and scaling down the rock as quickly as she can without slipping. She had picked it for its inaccessibility, and as she struggles and stretches to find small footholes and gaps in the rock for handholds she curses herself on her choice of hideaway. Her flailing now could attract more unwanted attention than a more obvious cave.

Eventually, she reaches the ground, and takes her pack from Zevran’s impatient hands. Her chainmail rustles in her pack; she quickly puts it on while he keeps an eye on the forward path. When she is, at last, prepared for a fight, she flings her cloak over her shoulders and allows the hood to hide her face. Zevran has already pulled his mask back over his face and his daggers glint at his back.

‘Ah,’ he murmurs, smiling wryly. ‘Just like old times. I can almost hear those darkspawn growling.’ 

'Don’t,’ she shakes her head.

‘My dear, you have aged very gracefully. And as we already discussed, I have essentially performed time magic on you.’

Zevran began to walk forward, staying close to the mountain side.

‘No – don’t joke about the darkspawn, I mean,’ she explains evenly. ‘Maker, Zev, it’s like being in the Deep Roads out here.’

She begins to follow him, keeping her footfalls light and slow. They carefully make their way down the mountain path – back the way they both came. They do not speak – the stillness of the previous night is beginning to lift itself away, but the silence settles uneasily in Elissa’s gut.

Weisshaupt is still at least forty miles away, across another mountain. The likelihood of encountering darkspawn at this altitude is much reduced – they fan out, certainly, but prefer to remain under the surface where they can seek out the song that has corrupted them so. This comforts Elissa slightly, but the potential number of darkspawn they could come across is still terrifying.

Zevran begins to speak after around half an hour of walking. ‘Will you share any details of your work with me, my dear?’

She sighs, considering. ‘Maybe. I suppose if you’re tagging along for this part…’

He turns and eyes her hopefully. ‘You know my lips are sealed.’ It is true. Of all the people she’s known in her life, nobody can keep a secret quite like Zevran or Leliana.

‘All right,’ she relents, smiling at his delighted expression. ‘But – Zevran, you mention this to no one. Do you understand? Not even Leliana knows the progress I’ve made.’

He presses his hand to his heart. ‘I swear, my Queen.’ And she knows he is sincere. For all his jokes and flirting, Zevran is the most loyal man she knows.

She reaches out to take his arm and draw him closer. The silence echoes around them. It would not do for her precious, private work to reach uninvited ears.

‘I moved out into the Anderfels because I wanted to study darkspawn,’ she explains quietly. ‘I found a pack of them about a week after I arrived here; I killed all of them except one. I knocked it out. I looked at its body, its blood.’

Zevran nods. ‘I suppose when we were just trying to survive we had no time to take a look at what exactly we were dealing with.’

‘Exactly.’ Elissa sighs again. ‘I mean, I could tell you a lot more about how they move in battle, their abilities. That’s my job. But it had never occurred to me to learn about darkspawn themselves until now.’

‘What did you learn?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not as much as I’d hoped. I still have a jar of its blood but I’m not sure how useful it’ll be now. I need a laboratory, a mage to help me study it. But its body – that’s what gave me some answers. Because I’d never really understood how corrupted they are. Do you remember that broodmother? In the Dead Trenches?’

Zevran wrinkles his nose in disgust. ‘I’d almost entirely erased that from my memory, thank you.’

‘Sorry – trust me, I’ve seen a few more since then and they don’t get any less disturbing.’ Elissa thinks of the wailing, rolling masses that were broodmothers, hidden away in cave networks where the person they used to be was left to rot – and yet, to live.

‘Broodmothers breed darkspawn, that’s how they have so many numbers in Blights. They attack villages, take women and leave them in a hole somewhere until they grow,’ she says. ‘But darkspawn are born corrupted. They come out of those pools six foot tall and ready to fight. It’s – there’s something in them. And I think it’s magic. And I think it’s very old magic.’

She recalls another part of the Inquisitor’s letter. _I’m sure you heard he had a dragon. At first we believed it to be an Archdemon but later research conducted by our arcanist confirmed that it was merely a dragon fed red lyrium. It was a corrupted dragon that appeared just as the old tales described. Corypheus truly used the Blight to uphold his power wherever he could._

‘Blood magic, certainly,’ Zevran concludes before she can. They nod at one another. ‘And you’re trying to find what’s different between you and them?’

‘That’s the idea,’ she pauses, navigating a narrow part of the path. ‘But – all right, another piece of Warden knowledge that you can never breathe to another soul –‘

‘Cross my heart, dearest,’ Zevran drawls behind her. ‘

When we become Wardens we drink darkspawn blood,’ she says slowly. She hears Zevran’s pace slow momentarily. ‘And if it doesn’t kill us – I was the only one who survived at my Joining – we’re temporarily immune to the Taint. But there’s magic involved – they put lyrium in it. And something from an archdemon. Maybe to dilute it?’

‘Andraste’s undergarments,’ Zevran curses quietly.

‘Oh, sorry, I’ll slow down.’

He is staring at her. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so surprised before.

‘You gamble with your lives and drink the blood – the _blood_ of that filth?’ He laughs incredulously. ‘How does anyone survive that?’

‘That’s another thing I’d like to know,’ she says darkly. ‘There are too many deaths in recruiting – if there was a way of ruling people out before the Joining ceremony I’d like to find it.’

Zevran rubs his face with his hands. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, as I was saying,’ Elissa goes on, following the path down a steeper face of the mountain. ‘I don’t know what exactly is in Wardens either, or how it’s different, or why its… _effect_ is varied in people. And, obviously, I don’t know what kind of magic it is that’s in my blood, darkspawn blood. Because it’s a blood thing.’

Zevran grimaces from behind her. ‘It always comes back to blood magic, doesn’t it, my dear?’

She laughs. ‘That’s why both Alistair and I are still alive, you know. Blood magic. Or something equally forbidden that Morrigan did to us. Wardens aren’t supposed to survive slaying an Archdemon.’

‘I think,’ Zevran replies, ‘That I don’t want to know any more earth shattering things today. The fact that you once drank darkspawn blood is enough.’

She holds up her hands in understanding. ‘Deal.’

They fall back into silence. Morning is breaking over the peaks of the Anderfels, the sun peeking over the tops of blackened clouds. At once, everything seems to inhale, and move. She hears the calling of eagles in the distance, the roar of wind.

The stagnancy of her quest prior to her friend’s arrival had made her wary of whether she would succeed or not. While her isolation was necessary for her own survival and integrity as a Warden, she needs assistance. There is only so much that a thirty-six year old Warden-Commander knows, and only so much that she can do. She feels powerful in her throne room at Vigil’s Keep, in her crown and robes at the palace in Denerim, but out here in the wilderness she feels nothing less than vulnerable.

Her changed appearance will not mask this vulnerability to the Weisshaupt Wardens. Her survival after slaying Urthemiel, she assumes, caused the hostility she constantly felt in the fortress. And her current duty – to unravel secrets of the Order, _to find a way out of the Wardens_ – will not warm them to her in any way.

They turn round a bend and see towers rising over the cloudy peaks. Zevran stops, and she goes to lean against a large boulder.

Weisshaupt fortress is as grey and massive as she remembers. The path directly towards the front door is no less intimidating than seeing the turrets ascending in between the mountains.

‘I’ve never felt so unwelcome in my life,’ Zevran says affrontedly. ‘And I’m _me_.’

When Elissa laughs, she finds herself hoping that it is carried by the biting winds and through the windows of the keep and to the ears of the First Warden, whose cold demeanour freezes her from thirty miles away.


End file.
